Dar es Salaam to Dodoma, Sunday September 14th

Keith and Christine would love to hear from you with questions, comments, personal news and any news at all from Australia or wherever you are. We will reply to all emails! Please write to either windlechristine@gmail.com or windle.keith@gmail.com

During the night the humidity must have peaked and it started to pour, with the sound of rain on the corrugated iron roofs around lulling me into a deep sleep under our first mosquito net.We came down in the morning to a morass of swirling, muddy water surrounding the restaurant cage. The rain beat on, with a group of people, looking like Hari Krishnas, drumming their way through it with looks on their faces that told us that their minds were on less mundane things. Keith spoke to a dripping man who approached him through the grill of a wall, and arranged for him to drive us to the bus station. It was walking distance, but not in this weather with our luggage.

We had no food for the journey, but we did have water and, since the bus was not leaving until 9 am, we hoped to buy some before leaving. After we had bought our tickets, I waited with the luggage while Keith went off to find some food. The supermarket he had been directed to was still shut so he walked along the surrounding streets, failing to buy any food but enjoying the fascinating street scenes, reminiscent of Cairo. The fact that it was Sunday morning was of no consequence here as building projects proceeded, with barefooted labourers carrying baskets of stone, sand and cement up a ramp, bicycles with vast loads miraculously attached to them pedalled along the street, vendors of all kinds (some with tiny shops, others simply with their goods displayed on the footpath) lined the streets, people apparently housed in humpies a few metres from the street were emerging to start the day, and hundreds of people were out to do their shopping or make their way around the puddles to work. There wasn’t another tourist in sight.

Rosie had suggested a bus company that only takes the number of passengers that it has seats for, apparently a quaint idea here, as we were soon to discover.

We were right at the very back of the bus, but our seats were comfortable and we were used to very long bus trips. We settled down to me observing my fellow passengers and the countryside and Keith looking around before having a sleep. The suburbs seemed to stretch for a long way, with many of them being reminiscent of towns in Egypt, with small houses made of various scrap materials and mud brick and rows of small shops and people everywhere. Stretches of dirt path were being swept, carts and bicycles were on the move, impossibly overloaded with goods and people, children scurried by in white shirted uniforms, stalls were selling what looked like fried lumps of something and lots of people were standing or sitting around on the ground, waiting or resting.

Once we were out in the dry countryside the views were so quintessentially African that we couldn’t help but be excited. We couldn’t see enough of the flat topped acacias and the baobab trees.The bus driver seemed to ignore the speed humps, no doubt placed on the roads before and during the stretches of villages for safety reasons, and each time we hit one, those of us at the back would fly out of our seats and back down again. Several times, Keith woke with a jolt as he crashed back down, but I was not so tossed about and quite enjoyed it.

The villages were the best parts and, after speeding along a bit, the bus would invariably stop for a few moments, allowing the multitude of vendors to hold up buckets of tomatoes and potatoes, hands of bananas, bottles of water, packets of cashews and peanuts and mystery cooked edibles which must be those that the guide book warned against.The guide book was pretty heavily focused on the health problems that can be encountered by tourists and both Rosie and her mother, Joy, had lost lots of weight here due to tummy troubles, so we were wary about what we could safely eat. Even when the bus stopped for a break, we only bought bananas; a fruit that can be peeled.

It was intriguing to see the beginning of a village flagged by a few, and then more, mud brick houses, with every now and then hundreds of mud bricks laid out drying in the sun. In some places where the soil was white, the bricks were cream, while in other places the bricks were the richest red. The road would be lined with ‘stalls’, with produce in buckets or tarpaulins on the ground, or simply on the dirt. We didn’t know who could be passing by to purchase so much food, since we were not seeing very much traffic. People must be sitting for hours waiting to sell one or two buckets full, if the purchases made by travellers on our bus were indicative of sales. Children invariably ran down to see the bus and often to wave, with older children, some only looking to be about five years old, carrying babies tied to their backs. Little girls were wearing the brightest and fanciest of western party dresses, with many looking to be a size or two too big. Boys, in comparison, were plainly and often grubbily dressed. The women wore bright material wraps, often draped over their heads, which was sensible since they were sitting out in the sun. Bare feet and thongs seemed to be the norm.

Some of the land had been burnt and we wondered whether it was intentional or accidental. It was the dry season, and many areas looked like drought areas in parts of Australia, with the plants having lost their leaves and many of the scruffy and stunted trees looking as if they were dead. There were the dry beds of rivers, and in the one place that we saw water, some young boys frolicked in it. We saw a couple of goats and realised that we were not well prepared for this trip in terms of general knowledge about Africa. For example, where were all those wonderful African animals to be found? Should we be expecting to see them along the way today? Apparently not. Some hollow logs tied up in the branches of the baobab trees must be something; we longed to ask but had no Swahili. Now and then there would be lengths of land enclosed by cut down prickle bushes making a kind of dead hedge. The bus tore on, with its occasionally air borne passengers having only one break of fifteen minutes to get out and stretch their legs.

Rosie, her sons, Sebi (who was three in May) and Jarvah (who was one in June) and her husband, Ticha’s, sixteen year old son, Fredy, were at the bus stop to meet us. Rosie and Ticha, and their two little boys had travelled from their home in Bairnsdale, Australia, a few weeks earlier and had been staying with Ticha’s family in their village of Farkwa. They, Ticha’s uncle, Gele, and Ticha’s other son, 13 year old Pius, were all in Dodoma, to meet us and also to get some treatment at the hospital for an infected wound on Gele’s arm.

It was absolutely wonderful to see everyone, and to be assisted with the sorting of luggage, the taxi and accommodation. Soon we had settled in to our room, and were making the reacquaintance of the little boys, whom we had not seen for some time, and starting to get to know Freddy and Pius, our new great nephews. Our guest house was reminiscent of those of former colonial times, or so I imagine, with friendly but very deferential staff, an ever running ironing room where the sheets were ironed and a communal outdoor washing area where women laughed and chatted as they did the guest house’s washing by hand. The little boys were tired and Keith had not quite caught up on our all nighter in Paris, so I typed and listened to the washing ladies while they all had a snooze.

Refreshed, we set off in a couple of taxis for a Chinese restaurant, much loved by Rosie and Joy, and with a playground, which was an important factor in catering for the children. We had a restful evening, with the formality of the Chinese restaurant being a bit much for the children. Freddy and Pius were so responsible in watching them in the playground, but it was a bit worrying when Sebi headed off before us with no concern for the taxis or other traffic, nor for stopping when he was asked to. Luckily all was well and we headed off in convoy to the guest house for the night.

A rural house with a stall outside.

Minibuses, or dalla dallas in Dar es Salaam

The runaway Sebi (above) is captured by Fredy (below).